


Elizabeth

by opal_bullets



Category: British Writer RPF, Historical RPF, Sonnets from the Portuguese - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Love, Illnesses, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-15
Updated: 2006-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_bullets/pseuds/opal_bullets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But you must understand; I am thirty-nine years old...I fear I am quite done dreaming."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elizabeth

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on EBB's first poem in her collection, Sonnets from the Portuguese. I don't think reading it before or after really matters; what matters is that you read it, because it is amazing.

The afternoon sun peeked through the small opening between the curtains and fell across the tea service for three. The elegant set, white with deep purple and pink flowers, fit nicely with the parlor and its dark curtains and furniture. Stark against them were the white columns and glinting decorations around the room. On the table off to one side was a bouquet of fresh flowers; another small table on the other side of the room was graced with a chess set, its men shined to perfection. Behind this a maid stood unobtrusively in case her mistress or her guests were to need anything.

“Recently I read an article about that very subject!” one of the guests was saying. His dark hair and sideburns were well-trimmed, but the fact that his collar was askew and the way he animatedly waved his arms about hinted at his excitable nature. His third cup of tea sloshed in his hand.

The other guest laughed. “Of course! I was a fool to think that anything would be news to you. John could never be said to keep his eyes closed, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Barrett?”

Elizabeth looked up from her own tea. “He is indeed the very paradigm of watchfulness, Mr. Browning. But you were interrupted, Mr. Kenyon. Please continue.” Despite her rather cool response, Mr. Browning continued to smile at her for a moment before returning his attention to his friend. Elizabeth found herself tracing his profile with her eyes before averting her gaze back to her other guest.

“I’ve already spoken about it with Alfred, and _his_ opinion is that…”

She could see his mouth moving, and she saw Mr. Browning nodding his head as he listened, thoughtfully stroking the dark hair that traced his jawline; but Elizabeth could no longer hear the words. Her gaze fell to the large teapot, now mostly empty. The sun flashed off its gilded edge and spiked to the back of her eyes. She closed them and drew in a deep breath. When she opened them she again tried to focus on the men, but her mind wandered, tracing the barely visible arabesque pattern of the dark blue section of couch between them. The vines crept and swirled around the space and she followed each of them like a labyrinth, stopping and starting again when she reached a dead end against one of their arms.

“Miss Barrett? Are you quite well?”

Elizabeth lifted her head to find Mr. Browning staring at her with concern. Under his gaze she slowly grew uncomfortable. Had she been so obvious as to draw his attention? “Very well, thank you.” As if to prove this, she picked up her cup and saucer and sipped some tea.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, but when he spoke it was to address his friend. “I’m sorry, John; I keep interrupting you.”

“It’s nothing, Robert.” He looked between the two of them with an unreadable expression on his face, laced with caution. “Shall I continue?”

“Please,” responded Elizabeth. Mr. Kenyon slowly began to speak again, then worked up to his usual, if a little improper speed. Absently she nodded at what he was saying and drank some more of her tea. She didn’t realize that her hand was shaking until her cup clattered against the saucer as she set it down. As quickly as possible without seeming suspicious, she placed her saucer back onto the table. Turning her head she gave a barely perceptible nod to Lily. The maid immediately came up to the table and swept the tray away.

A moment later she came back with the tray replenished. The teapot was again full and the three cups were steaming with the fresh drink. One cup sat deliberately apart from the rest. Immediately Elizabeth picked this one up and drank from it. She gave a slight shudder at the bitterness of the laudanum. Almost at once she began to relax, though she knew the actual effects would not penetrate for some time. It simply helped her to know that her medicine was near. There was a lull in the others’ conversation as they helped themselves to the fresh tea and pastries.

Mr. Browning softly cleared his throat and settled his saucer on his knee. “Have you been writing much lately, Miss Barrett?” His face remained calm and serious but for a small twinkling in the eyes.

“I have been mostly spending my time with letters, Mr. Browning.”

Hiding a smile behind a daintily held teacup he replied, “I see. However I was thinking of your poetry. Is there anything that you would share with us?” Elizabeth could not think of what to say; how could she explain that despite all of his praise and that of others, these past long months she had not found it within herself to write? Thankfully he continued before she could respond. “I must ask, Miss Barrett, because I was reading your latest collection of poems, and just this moment, _The Lady’s Yes_ came to me. I’m particularly fond of that piece.”

Elizabeth’s stomach gave a jolt. Why that particular poem? She met his now intense gaze squarely. “As always, Mr. Browning, I appreciate your confidence. I’m glad that my poems please you.”

“That’s an evasion if I’ve ever heard one!” laughed Mr. Kenyon. “Very well, keep your new writing secret, even from friends such as us. But why deny us of your poetry completely? Would you at least give a couple of poor fools a recitation? You could recite the one Robert mentioned- which was it again?” he asked, turning to the man next to him.

“ _The Lady’s Yes_ ,” he answered, but looked at Elizabeth as he said it.

The two young men watched her expectantly, and all of a sudden she felt foolish, as if she’d become an old school marm and her students were waiting for her to say something wise. She lifted her cup to her lips and sipped her tea. She had nothing to teach them. Yet to her own surprise she began to speak:

“‘Yes!’ I answered you last night;  
‘No!’ this morning, Sir, I say!  
Colours, seen by candle-light,  
Will not look the same by day.

“When the tabors played their best,  
Lamps above, and laughs below –  
 _Love me_ sounded like a jest,  
Fit for _Yes_ or fit for _No!_

“Call me false, or call me free –” There Elizabeth stopped, as she heard a sound she had not thought yet to hear: the opening of the front door. Her father’s voice drifted into the parlor from the foyer as he gave instructions to their butler for a late tea.

“Miss Barrett?” prompted Mr. Kenyon.

“I apologize, Mr. Kenyon, Mr. Browning, but my father…thinks it better that I rest during the latter half of the day. If you’ll both excuse me?” Lily was already at her side and helping her to stand.

“Of course, Miss Barrett, think nothing of it!” exclaimed Mr. Kenyon, as he and Mr. Browning both stood.

“I thank you for your understanding. You are both welcome to finish tea; I’m sure my father would enjoy the company.”

“But we will still miss your company,” said Mr. Browning, “as well as your poetry. The last stanza of the poem is my favorite part of the piece.”

Elizabeth found a small smile. “Perhaps another time. Good day, gentlemen.” With a slight nod of her head she left the room, Lily supporting her with an arm around her waist and another gripping her elbow. A part of her could see the eyes that trailed her out of the room, but she quickly shoved the thought out of her head.

“Slow down a bit, Miss Elizabeth,” entreated Lily as they walked down the hallway toward the stairs.

The poet kept her gaze trained on the stained wood walls as she tried to control her breathing. “It would do no good for my father to upset himself over my health.”

Lily scoffed and tightened the grip around her waist to keep her at a more measured pace. “Your father would upset himself over your health if you fainted in the hallway.” She paused a moment and then added slyly, “And then perhaps Mr. Kenyon or Mr. Browning would have to carry you to your chambers.”

“That is enough, Lily!” she said sharply. She caught her breath for a few steps and continued, “Besides, father would just have Hudson carry me if I had trouble, as he usually does.”

“Very true,” Lily conceded. “But not if you collapsed now while he was settling in the master and the first people I ran to when looking for help were your two _dashing_ young guests-”

“Enough, Miss Wilson!” Elizabeth gasped out.

The handmaid dropped her playful manner at the use of her surname, and also since Elizabeth was starting to falter. Thankfully, however, they had reached the beginning of the staircase. “Would you have me pretend I don’t like them, Miss Elizabeth?” she asked as she placed her mistress’s left hand on the end of the banister.

“Of course not,” she sighed, slumping some when Lily removed the arm supporting her back. “But you were not speaking of yourself a moment ago.”

“No, but wouldn’t it be wonderful?” The young woman leaned in conspiratorially. “I would love an excuse to have one of them carry me,” she giggled. “And rescue me like in the old fairy tales.”

Elizabeth lifted her gaze from the red-carpeted floor to look at the maid. Strands of thin blonde hair fell in wisps from beneath the white cap framing her eyes, shining with excitement. The girl looked so young. “Would you?”

For a moment Lily remained frozen, but then her face fell. “Oh, Miss Elizabeth, that’s- that’s not what I meant at all! I’m so sorry!” She grasped her mistress’s hand with both of her own. “Please forgive me; I wasn’t thinking.”

“I understand you didn’t mean any harm, Lily,” said Elizabeth softly. “But you must understand; I am thirty-nine years old.” She locked her brown eyes with the blue ones so that they could not look away. “I fear I am quite done dreaming.”

The corners of Lily’s eyes grew moist. “Yes, Miss Elizabeth,” she murmured. She removed her hands and instead clasped them in front of her. “Shall I fetch Hudson to help you up the stairs and then let Flush back in the house?” At her mistress’s nod she hurried lightly down the corridor and out of sight.

Elizabeth watched her form disappear and stood staring a while after, trying to urge her annoyance away; there was no reason for her to be upset by Lily. Yet, the more she tried to quell it, the fiercer it churned in her gut. It began to boil and set her veins afire, causing her to grimace and grip the end of the banister so that the carved wood dug sharply into her hand. Instead of distracting her, the pain snapped her burgeoning anger into focus. Bracing herself she began breathing deeply, and she looked from her slippers and up the carpet to the landing at the top of the stairs. Above the highest step she could see the upper part of the glass windows which, due to the placement of the sun, only let in a dim light down the stairwell and to her face.

Muffled male laughter and cigar smoke floated along the warm air from the parlor and swirled around her in the silence.

Elizabeth’s lips set in a thin line as she gathered her skirts and lifted a foot onto the first step. She pulled up the other behind it and let her breath out in a huff. Already the air was burning in her throat, but she could stand that. There were only fourteen more steps to go.

As Elizabeth climbed the stairs, feet shuffling one by one onto each step, her muscles screamed with exertion and her lungs became more limp with every breath. It took all of her will and concentration to first move her hand – and then both hands – further up the banister, cling to it with skin stretched taut over white knuckles, and then drag the rest of her body after them. Her only thought was of moving up that one foot further, but this did not prevent images from slipping in front of her eyes. _Five._ Elizabeth’s mother appeared in front of her, before she had fallen ill and died; a glorious sunset stretched out before her, shining over the grassy grounds of the home where she’d lived during childhood. _Six_. She saw the kind face of her brother Edward as he bid farewell before going out to sea; she read the letter which had informed her in firm script that he had drowned during that same voyage. _Seven_. Her father sat down next to her and stroked her thick brown hair as she wept for her younger sibling, but in the same heartbeat she felt harmed by him when he looked down his large nose at her and refused to let her convalesce abroad as her doctor had suggested.

Elizabeth collapsed onto the banister with a coughing fit, feeling as if her lungs were shriveling and attempting to force themselves up out of her throat. The lack of air darkened the images in her brain and her body was wracked so hard she had to lean over the banister, until finally, as her legs lost all semblance of strength, she was forced to sit down on the stairs. Her breath rasped in and out of her lungs, whistling loudly as if it were passing through without actually going into her body. Slowly her convulsions became shakes, and then faded into faint tremors. As the darkness in front of her eyes cleared, she thought she saw the outline of Robert’s profile in the shadow down the hall below her.

Despite the fact that she felt dry and sore, a weak laugh worked its way through her system. Would he still think so highly of her if he saw her now?

“No!” came a soft shriek, followed by a painful yip. Elizabeth lifted her head from her hands to see Lily running down the corridor, attempting not to trip on Flush who was bounding between her heels. “You’ve worked yourself into a right state, Miss Elizabeth! Why didn’t you wait for someone to come help you?”

Flush leapt up the stairs to her and put his front paws on her shoulder. Elizabeth entwined her fingers in the dark fur on the spaniel’s back as he licked away tears she hadn’t known were there. “I did not wish to wait.” Her voice sounded alien from all the coughing she had done.

For some reason Lily seemed outraged. “Where is that Hudson? I told him to come to you straightaway. Just let me go find him!” She began to march back down the hallway, cheeks flushed with anger, if not a little of something else as well.

“Lily,” Elizabeth called as loudly as she could manage. “That will not be necessary.”

Surprised, the maid came back to the edge of the stairs. “But Miss-”

“It will take but a moment to recover my strength.” Flush rolled over next to her and let out a moaning sigh as she softly scratched his underbelly. Elizabeth twirled her fingers between his short silver curls and sighed.

Lily tentatively climbed the stairs and crouched down in front of her. “Shall I help you then, Miss Elizabeth?” Resignedly the poet nodded and so she gave a gentle shove to Flush, who flipped over and scrambled up to the landing. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around the railing and Lily placed her arms under her shoulders to help her stand. A feral noise came up out of the older woman’s chest as she heaved herself onto her feet. Forcing herself upright, she paused for a moment, panting almost as hard as the spaniel running around excitedly, claws digging into the plush red carpet. “Miss?”

“It’s only a few more steps.” She looked out the windows in front of her into the grey London afternoon sky. Lifting a foot to climb she muttered, “Just bloody stairs.” Lily resumed her previous supporting position and took as much of Elizabeth’s body weight as she could. At length they reached the top of the stairs, where Flush greeted them with a small bark and then bounded toward Elizabeth’s room.

Unhurriedly the two women followed him. The hallway was lit by oil lamp sconces along the wall, creating pools of light between each painting and doorway. As they went by, Elizabeth rested her gaze on a portrait of a little girl holding a furry kitten. Her large, innocent eyes followed their progress as they continued toward her chambers. “I’ll turn out the bed for you,” said Lily as they entered the dark room.

“No. Let me sit for a while.” By the feeble light entering in from the corridor, her maid led her to the small chair in front of her vanity, as it was the closest. Then she bustled about, lighting the lamps next to her bed and on her writing desk, making sure the curtains were securely shut as she did so. Flush woofed at her from near the bed, where his food and water bowls lay.

“Yes, in a moment,” she said absently. Then she brought Elizabeth’s shawl over to her. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Elizabeth looked at her agitated maid through the mirror and slowly took out one of the pins that were keeping up her hair. “What is it?”

Lily started guiltily. “I…I just can’t seem to remember.”

“What can’t you remember?” She took another pin out, causing a thick, dark curl to fall against her cheek.

“The last stanza of your poem.” Elizabeth stared at her. “ _The Lady’s Yes_. Mr. Browning said he liked it so…” Lily fidgeted and picked at a thread that was coming loose from her plain dress.

Elizabeth’s gaze wandered beyond her maid to the wall in the mirror. On it hung three portraits. The one in the middle was a large oil painting given to her by Mister Haydon. It was of William Wordsworth at Helvellyn, arms folded and deep in contemplation. Often the sight of the pensive poet would inspire her, with his white hair and bald pate shining starkly out of the darkness of his surroundings as if lit upon by a halo. The other portraits hung on either side of him; they were engravings of two other contemporary poets. The young men all etched in black were staring toward Wordsworth, their elder in brilliant though dark colors. They were Alfred Tennyson, and Robert Browning.

“By your truth she shall be true –  
Ever true, as wives of yore –  
And her _Yes_ , once said to you,  
SHALL be Yes for evermore.” Turning her concentration back on her hair, she dug through her curls to find the rest of the pins.

“It’s beautiful, Miss Elizabeth,” said Lily quietly. When she received no response, she ducked her head and hurried out of the room to fetch Flush some water.

After the door closed behind Lily, Elizabeth picked up her brush and began to comb her hair. With the sound of her maid arguing with the butler who had belatedly made an appearance upstairs, she stared down through her tresses and studied the rippling waves of grain in the wood of her vanity, pierced by the pile of pins she had placed atop it. Next to this was a small leather-bound volume that she didn’t recognize straightaway. Setting her brush aside, she let her curls fall to frame her face, and picked up the book. She traced the gilded lettering on the spine: _The Idylls of Theocritus_. Opening the worn cover, she savoured the sound of Greek in her head. Slowly she turned the pages, snatching bits and pieces of his work. Her voice came to her as a song from his ancient times, and she wasn’t really reading the words, but was acted upon by them so that she was overcome by the images and emotions that he wove with his verse. He sung of sweet years past that had been generous to men, both old and young.

Yet what did she have to look back to? She had no memories of orchards laden with thick fruit, or of hunting for nimble game in the woods, nor of any gods coming down to grace her. It seemed that each year her life became dimmer; another curtain was drawn, her strength failing with the light. And with each new bout of illness, new death of a brother, the shadows grew longer. In her childhood she had done many things: run, played, rode horses. That was someone else, a stranger even in memory. Who Elizabeth really was, was this room. Every aspect of it was hers, the soft fabrics, the swirling patterns, the myriad books, the scattered papers, the ink stain on the edge of the desk, the thick, dark curtains…the portraits. That’s all she was and all she held inside her, nothing more.

Flush trotted up to her and jumped onto her lap. Taken by surprise, Elizabeth smiled. “Twice in one day you must comfort me,” she said, allowing him to again lick the unmarked tears. “I don’t know how you can be happy in this room, knowing the outside sun. Don’t you ever tire being near the sick and dreary?”

Kissing him on the nose she set him back down on the floor, and with some difficulty, stood. She wrapped her shawl tight around her and took her time to get to the writing desk. The lamp on it lit upon several pages, each with one or two verses scribbled upon them. They were her efforts at writing from earlier that day. Elizabeth sat down heavily and pulled a new sheet of paper out from underneath the used ones. Uncapping a small bottle of ink, she dipped a brown and black feather in the liquid, then set it to the page.

It dripped, the ink spreading in miniscule rivulets on the parchment.

Very carefully she set the feather back into the ink bottle and left it there. How could she feel this burning need in her chest, but not have the capacity to write?

Suddenly, she heard the front door below her swing shut, slightly shaking the house. On impulse she reached across her desk and pulled open the curtain to peek outside. Immediately she closed her eyes against the sun and jerked away, but then cracked them open, just enough to see. She squinted and at first only saw the houses squeezed together across the street, but then down on the road she espied them: two young men, tall and confident, about to set out on their way home. One placed a hat upon his head and straightened his collar before briskly walking down the street. The other, however, paused a moment before following and sweeping his thick hair from his forehead, lifted his gaze toward her window.

For the slightest moment Elizabeth sat stunned, but came to herself quickly and dropped the curtain back down. She was momentarily blinded after the brightness of the window, but what did eyes matter?

Without quite thinking, her hands roamed and touched her face, her neck, her stomach, her chest.

Pain.

She prayed she was near death.

Misery.

She had never been so close as now to life.

Agony.

Not gentle was the strong embrace of Love.

  


* * *


End file.
